Truths and Half Truths

Chapter Seven - Dads Will Be Dads

August 1943 - Late Sunday Afternoon

Hugh Henry Houtton grinned into the mirror as he scrubbed the oil from the creases and calluses in his rough, working-man's hands.

Hugh Henry took great delight in tormenting the fellows who came calling for one of his four daughters.  He was of the firm conviction that teasing served three purposes:  it tested a young man's sense of humour and confidence; it poked holes in any strutting rooster's puffed up demeanor (the better to let the girls see the real man more quickly); and - best of all - it was just simply great fun.  It played perfectly into the quiet, dry, deadpan humour that the Irish in Hugh Henry so favoured.

He chuckled to himself as he dried his hands, imagining Mary Lou and Justin downstairs,  replaying every sentence, every word, every gesture and nuance from the night before, dissecting every exchange in search of  "that unpleasantness" and of course, not finding anything.  How long to keep them on tenterhooks ...?

Hugh Henry Houtton was born in Northern Ireland and came to Canada with his parents as a young boy.  Fate being nothing if not whimsical, he had taken the identical route to Canada as one Nils Lennart Ling (Justin's father) had taken on arriving in the New World:  landing in Boston, train across the U.S. to Minneapolis, then north into Saskatchewan.  Both men had ended up in Saskatoon, Nils to buy his first bakery, Hugh Henry to join the railroad as a crewman and later Station Agent at remote outposts like Naikum and Climax and Kindersley. 

It was during a short tenure in Biggar (true motto, still posted on signs at each edge of the town  after 100 years: "New York is big, but this is Biggar!" ) that Hugh Henry and his bride Helen welcomed their third daughter, Mary Lou.  A few years later, the Houttons and their four girls moved to Edmonton.

As a father, Hugh Henry Houtton was an odd combination of remote and loving, rock-hard and yet doting.  The girls had strict rules to follow, but forgiveness came easily in the Houtton household, especially for the two younger girls, Mary Lou and Edna, who could do little wrong in their mother's eyes and none in Hugh Henry's.

Hugh Henry glanced into the mirror one last time, put on his gravest face, and came back downstairs into the parlour.  He glared severely at this young pilot.  "Well ...?  What have you got to say for yourself?"

Mary Lou began to speak, but Justin squeezed her arm and said solemnly, "I think we both know who deserves the apology here."

Hugh Henry stopped in his tracks, taken completely aback,  and searched Justin's face.  "We do ...?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes, sir.  What you said last night was ... well ... it went beyond the Pale."

Mary was baffled, looking from one to the other.  "What did he say?  Daddy?  What did you say?"

Hugh Henry didn't answer for a moment or two, still looking at Justin - locking eyes, searching that stolid face with the intense blue eyes for a clue, some sort of sign --

It flickered past for just a moment, just a tiny twinkle.  Hugh Henry saw it and recognized it for what it was.  He fought to suppress a smile, but Justin saw that, too, and in that long moment there was a silent exchange - an acknowledgement between the two that each knew the other's game and each was more than ready to play along.

"Will somebody please tell me what's going on?" Mary pleaded.

Justin winked at Hugh Henry, conceding, and Hugh Henry chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder.  "Welcome to our home, young man.  I should tell you the girls were up all night talking about you."

"Daddy!"

"They were?"  Justin asked.  "Mary didn't mention that.  I got the sense I hadn't made much of an impression at all."

"Justin!  I said no such thing!"

"Oh, no, she's been quite giddy about you all day.  Hard to live with, really.  It's why I had to go out."

"Will you stop!"

"I see.  So she's been staring longingly out the window, then ...?  Mooning ...?  Sighing ...?"

"Oh, much worse than that.  You seem to have cast quite the spell over her."

"Mother!!!"

"It's the uniform, I think.  The truth is, I stole it."  The two were having a grand time now. 

"So you're not a pilot?"

"I mostly clean latrines.  I'm expecting to get promoted, though.  Right now I'm doing the Enlisted Men's facilities.  The fellow who cleans the latrines in the Officers' Mess has just been shipped overseas.  It's a much better class of - well, you know.  So here's hoping."

"There we go, Mary.  A young man with prospects.  You can't beat that."

Mary shot the two a withering look and stomped off to the kitchen to help put the final touches on the meal.

Hugh Henry grinned at Justin.  "We'll pay for that."

"I suppose," said Justin with a chuckle.  "But really, it's always worth it."

                                                 **********************

Dinner was a feast in every way.

Justin sat nearest Hugh Henry's end of the table.  The two men discussed, debated, and argued through the main course.  They talked about the war and how it was being conducted; about shortages; about politics and economics and the bakery business and how the railroad figured into Canada's future.

"It's a big country, and people will always need to get around," said Hugh Henry.

"One day, we'll fly them around it," said Justin.  "Coast to coast in a day or two."

"Nonsense," said Hugh Henry.  "People aren't like bombs or cargo.  They need creature comforts.  And too many people are afraid of heights.  But don't you worry, young fellow.  I'm sure there will be lots of work for you after the war.  You come to me - I can get you in at the railroad.  If you can pilot an aeroplane, I expect you might do just fine driving a train."

Mary listened, enthralled - contributing from time to time where she had convictions, but mostly letting the two men jaw comfortably.  Now and again, subtly, almost imperceptibly she would brush up against Justin. 

As she passed a plate across the table or filled a water glass, the back of her hand might linger just a moment longer than absolutely necessary against his arm.  When she rose to clear the table and stopped to ask if anyone wanted some freshly-baked apple crisp (a question that made Hugh Henry smirk; who ever didn't want apple crisp?), she casually rested her hand on Justin's shoulder.

Each touch was electric to her, because she knew the touches were not accidental and she was pretty sure he would not know.  She smiled to herself as she imagined the oh-so-subtle web she was weaving.  She carried the dessert plates out into the kitchen, where Vera was scraping the plates and Helen running the water into the sink.

"Mary, dear," said Helen.  "He's a lovely young man.  Do try to stop mauling him.  He's not a new puppy."

"Why, I'm not ..." Mary began to protest.  She stopped as Vera snorted in amusement.  "Fine.  I'll leave him alone."

Helen nodded.  "I think that's best, dear."

Justin came through the swinging doors a few minutes later, and offered to help with the dishes, but Helen would have none of that.  "You're a guest," she said simply.  "We can't put our guests to work, or nobody would ever come by.  No, you run along out of the kitchen, young man.  And take Mary with you; she's done enough today getting this meal ready."

Vera began a feeble protest, but a warning glance from Helen sealed her lips.

"Do you like ice cream?"  Justin asked Mary.

"I love it.  And there's a little dairy bar over on 118th.  It's a beautiful night for a walk."

"Does anybody else --"

"No," said Mary, quickly and decisively.  "They're busy.  Looks like it's just us chickens.  Let's go."

                                          *******************************

August 1943 - Early Monday Morning

As the train rolled through the night, Justin elbowed Paul to stop his snoring and remembered again the walk along the quiet, tree-lined street.  He remembered what they talked about, what they laughed about, those moments when she would look up into his face and he could feel himself drawn into the deep brown pool of her eyes.

He thought about that moment when he reached down as they walked and held her hand - how awkward it felt at first until the two hands got acquainted and melted together into one - then how perfect the world seemed.

They'd stopped at a playground along the way, and she'd gotten on the swings and he'd pushed her, gently at first.  Each time he closed his hands on her waist and pushed her away she would return to him.  She'd asked for more and more, and he pushed her higher and higher until she'd launched herself off the swing, landing gracefully in the sand and bowing to his applause.

He remembered the walk to the train station and how, on the impossibly crowded platform amid all the hubbub and tears and and whistles and barked orders, they'd turned to one another.  A whispered goodbye, an embrace, and a kiss - chaste, innocent, polite, but so much more.  He'd felt his life unravel in that kiss.

He sighed as the flat prairie rolled past, hour after hour, each click of the wheels taking him further and further from this amazing girl. 

He elbowed Paul.  "Hnnhhh ...?"

"It's like I've known her all my life," he said.  Paul shifted in his seat and pulled his cap lower.

"You asleep?"  Justin poked him again, hard in the ribs.

"Ouch, ya crumbum.  Leave me be.  Fine, fine.  She's perfect.  Good for you.  How many is that you got waiting for you?"

"Uhh ..."

"I count two, at least.  You better hope you get killed over there.  'Cause I wouldn't wanna be you when it's time to come back.  Did this one get a ring, too?"

"No, but ..."

"Well, maybe you'll be lucky and she'll "Dear John" ya before you have to do all the explaining, eh?  Now, do you mind?  Tryin' to sleep."

As Paul slumped further down, Justin looked out the window at the darkness drifting by.  Yeah, he thought.  I guess I sort of forgot to mention a few things ...

It's INTERMISSION TIME! Visit Our Concession Stand for Fresh Hot Popcorn!

... or, even better .. go here  (really, you should visit Rob more often) and push "Play" for an utterly breathtaking performance by Bruce Springsteen.  This may be the single best live television music performance I've ever seen.  Ever.  Go.  Look.  Listen.  Stand in awe.

Then come back.  Chapter 7 is almost done.  For obvious reasons, I'm going for "perfect" (or as close as I get to that) over "now, because people are impatient".

No tale before its time.  Not this time.

Chapter 6 - Come Into The Parlour ...

August, 1943 - Sunday Afternoon

As Mary took Justin's arm, she glanced up to see Verna Hextall bearing down on them, cutting off their angle to the house as skilfully as any quarter-horse.  There was no way around Verna (literally and figuratively; Verna was a woman of considerable substance) and no way out of making introductions.

Verna looked the young pilot up and down.  "Ling, you say," said Verna.  "That's an interesting name ..."

"I think it's a perfectly fine name," said Mary, bristling.  Verna glanced at her, vacillating idly between "mildly offended by the impertinence" and "vaguely amused".  She mentally swatted the young girl aside and turned back to the matter at hand.  Her eyebrows arched inquisitively.

"It's Swedish, ma'am.  My Dad came here from Sweden."

"Mary says you're from Vancouver."  In fact, Mary hadn't said a single thing to Verna Hextall, and was becoming more and more annoyed at the woman's treasure hunt.  She knew this would all turn into one of Verna's stories, and she wasn't ready to surrender it just yet.

"Well, Kitsilano, actually.  It's part of Vancouver," said Justin.

"And where --"

"We should be getting in the house, now.  My mother is so excited to meet Justin."  Mary tugged firmly on Justin's arm and smiled sweetly at Verna.  "I'm sure if you call her later, Mom will have all the news that's fit."

Verna huffed away and Mary giggled.  "Nosy old spider," she said. 

"I was about to start reeling off my name and rank,"  Justin chuckled.  "That's what they teach us to do if we're captured and being interrogated by the Germans.  Ling, Justin Alfred Leonard.  Flight Lieutenant, Royal Canadian Air Force."  He snapped off a salute.

Mary giggled and in her best Cher-man accent, said:  "Und verr dos dis Link name come from, hein?"

"Ah, so, China, sir.  Don't ret bronde hair and brue eyes fool you.  I come flom a rong rine of Chinamen.  My name is rearry "Ring"!"  They were both laughing as the porch door swung open.

"So this is the young man who is joining us for supper," said Helen Houtton, wiping her hands on her apron.  "Mary Lou ...?"

Mary stopped laughing long enough to introduce Justin and watched, delighted, as her mother and he fell into easy conversation.

"I hope you don't mind, but there were no stores open today," said Justin.  "My mom always told me you never arrive for a visit - especially a meal - empty-handed.  So I was trying to figure out what to bring ..."

Helen was pooh-poohing any responsibility he might have to bring something to dinner (although she herself would never show up at someone's house with empty hands) when Justin reached into his pack and brought out a small booklet of coupons.

In 1942, ration books were introduced in Canada.  Each booklet contained coupons for staples such as sugar, coffee, tea, butter, fat, and preserves.  Eleven million ration books were issued - one for every adult.  They allowed the bearer to purchase, for example, 8 ounces of sugar a week.  Having an extra ration book was a godsend for any family.

"But ... but ... you can't," Helen protested.  "How will YOU eat?"

"Well, the RCAF sort of takes care of that, ma'am," said Justin.  "in fact, this isn't even my book.  My Dad gave it to me as I was leaving."

"Well, if you're not going to use it, shouldn't you send it back to your father?  Surely your parents need it ..."

"My folks own a bakery," said Justin.  "They get exemptions from most of the restrictions so they can make bread and other baked goods.  So they don't need it.  And since I'm shipping out tonight, I don't need it, either.  But - do you suppose it might come in handy around here?"

From that moment onward, right up until the very last day of her life, Helen Houtton adored Justin and would claw the eyes out of anyone, man or woman, who would dare speak a bad word against him within her earshot.

Helen beamed.  She said, "Come into the parlour,"  and turned to walk along the hallway.

Mary tugged on Justin's sleeve.  He bent his head down to her and she pressed her lips against his ear.  She whispered, "... said the spider to the fly," and giggled.

Helen didn't turn around.  "I heard that," she said over her shoulder.

"So did I, ma'am, and I'm deeply offended on your behalf," said Justin, and Mary punched his shoulder as he smirked at her.  "Ow!  Is she always this mean?"

"Oh, you wait," said Mary.  "I have not yet begun to be mean to you, Flight Lieutenant SmartyPants."

The two sat on a chintz love seat in the parlour, drinking lemonade and learning more and more about one another with each passing second. 

"I have to know," he asked.  "Is it Mary or Mary Lou? Or both?"

"It's sort of both," she said.  "On my Birth Certificate, it's "Mary Lou Houtton". My Mom calls me Mary, except when she's being proper, then I'm Mary Lou.  My sisters usually call me Mary.  My Dad would never dream of calling me anything but Mary Lou, ever.  Teachers, Mary Lou.  Friends, usually Mary."

"And what do you want me to call you?"

"I want you to pick," she laughed.  "It's a test."

"Okay, then.  I'll call you Mary L --"  Justin stopped as her face changed ever so subtly.  "Mary.  Just Mary."

She beamed.  "I like that best," she said.

They talked for an hour, Justin hungrily devouring her every word, his eyes never leaving her face. 

He was pretty sure this was the most beautiful girl he'd ever laid eyes upon.

For her part, Mary was enchanted by Justin's quick wit and dry sense of humour, his ease and confidence, how sweet he was to her mom and her baby sister Edna.  From the night before, she knew her older sister Vera already approved, albeit grudgingly.  There was just one more jump to clear.

The front door opened, and Hugh Henry came in.  His hands and shirt were oil-stained from helping a neighbour fix his car.

"Hello again, young fellow," said Hugh Henry Houtton as Justin rose from the chair.  "I'll not shake your hand just now or you'll never get the oil off.  I'll be down in a few moments.  Then we'll have a good old chat, we will.  See if perhaps we can't make up for that unpleasantness last night."

He disappeared upstairs.  Justin looked at Mary.  "Did I say something wrong last night ...?"

Mary shrugged, baffled.  "I didn't think so.  No, I'm sure you didn't.  Did you?  He's joking.  I'm sure he's joking."

She smiled and patted Justin's arm reassuringly.  "Yes, I'm positive he's joking.  Probably."

Chapter Five - A Guest For Dinner

August 1943 - Sunday, Mid- Afternoon

"A watched pot never boils, dear."  Helen Houtton said.  "If you want to make yourself useful while you try to magically make that young man appear on the doorstep, you might want to get some Wright's Cream out from under the sink and get to work on the good silverware.  I suppose this is occasion enough to bring it out of hiding."

Mary tore herself away from the window and slid open the bottom cupboard of the china hutch.  She pulled out the aged mahogany box that held the antique flatware in shaped velvet-lined forms.  She giggled as she imagined the forks and spoons squinting at the sudden light.

While polishing silver wasn't anyone's favourite job, Mary was glad of it today.  She could take the chore out to the porch and sit on the step, cool in the shade, and watch the world go by as she wiped the Wright's Cream on the dulled surfaces and polished them to gleaming brilliance.

It was painstaking work - a soft bristle brush helped work the cleaner into every delicately sculpted crease and fold in the handles.  But there was satisfaction in buffing the 70 year old silverware until it looked newer than new.  Mary bent to her chore, glancing up occasionally to make sure she didn't miss anything (or anyone) important.

The prospect of a guest for dinner had put Mary's mother into a tizzy.  Helen Houtton entertained rarely, and never spontaneously.  Sunday dinners in the Houtton household - even in the heat of summer - were more elaborate that those earlier in the week, to be sure.  But Helen's standards for entertaining went well beyond the roasted chicken and mashed potatoes she had planned for this Sunday. 

With the short notice and no open market on the Lord's Day, Helen's creativity and skill in the kitchen would be sorely tested.  And since it had been Mary's decision to rashly invite this random young pilot for supper, she was expected to pitch in with enthusiasm for whatever needed doing.

The news of Mary's young visitor had begun to travel up and down 72nd Street from the moment church let out and Helen had approached Verna Hextall to borrow an apple or two.  Verna's eyebrows went up immediately.

"Makin' Apple Crisp, are we?  That's pretty special on a Sunday in August ..."  The trailing inflection left Helen no choice.  The price of an apple or two was a nugget of gossip, and Verna was a hard trader when it came to information.

For parents of young women - Hugh Henry and Helen Houtton had four girls at home aged between 16 and 22 - a romance with a young serviceman was a delicate issue.  On the one hand, these fine young men were going off to serve their country and deserved every benefit of the doubt.  On the other hand, there were a lot of doubts to give them the benefit of.

Neither the girls, nor the young men, could say with certainty these boys would return unchanged.  That lent an urgency to romance that would make any parent uneasy.  With Edmonton being a staging point for the military, young soldiers, sailors, and airmen were arriving every day from every direction, and a young man with no ties to the community, no family here, no roots ... well, people act differently when they're away from home, don't they?

No parent could fail to see the hypnotic effect of a snappy uniform, how it turned even the most slovenly youth into a dashing hero.  And dashing heroes went away and sometimes didn't come back; does any parent want a child to endure that kind of heartbreak?

So Verna Hextall could share a little of her friend Helen's pride and excitement, and a few of Helen's misgivings.  But mostly what Verna Hextall could share was the news of this dashing young pilot Mary Lou Houtton had met the night before at the dance at the roller rink, and he was from Vancouver and don't we all know about boys from the big city and how they behave and don't you know she's always been quite the looker, that one, and he's shipping out tonight so I suspect old Hugh Henry will be watching them like a hawk. 

And Verna did share all this, quite willingly, all morning and afternoon with anyone from the street who passed by.  She shared it with Ann Archer, whose son Little Ricky tugged at her hand the whole time the adults were talking (the rude little beast, and wouldn't he benefit from some time under Verna's stern eye and quick hand?).  By now Verna had come to the conclusion that this whole idea of entertaining a young man going off to war that very evening was a bad business indeed, and she would have to think a little more carefully about the Houtton girls, who had never seemed to her before to be little chippies but I suppose people do change, don't they?

Mary glanced up at the street as she polished the last fork.  Ricky Archer was across the way, crouched down, digging ants out of the cracks in the sidewalk.  Poor little guy - everyone on the street knew (thanks again to Verna Hextall) how Little Ricky's dad - Big Ricky - had joined up and been shipped to Winnipeg where he'd gotten drunk one night and beat up an officer and was now in a military jail.  The shame and embarrassment was hard for Little Ricky's mother to bear, and with school coming in a week or two it was only a matter of time before Little Ricky came home crying and hard truths would be told.

Mary finished up the last piece and carried the flatware back into the house.  Potatoes needed peeling, apples wanted coring, carrots and onions from the backyard garden had to be pulled from the earth and washed.  On any other Sunday, this would all be drudge work, done as quickly and as haphazardly as could be gotten away with.  Today was different.  Mary wanted things to be perfect.

Helen understood, and if she worried about her Mary Lou, she didn't show it.  The two chattered happily in the kitchen as they worked. 

The phone rang - two longs and a short, their signal on the party line.  Helen answered, rolling her eyes only a little at the several faint clicks she could hear along the line.

"Hello, everybody," she said - her own way of answering the phone - a little jab in the eye for the nosy neighbours.  Mary grinned.

"Ah, hello, Verna.  Yes.  No, not yet.  Oh, is that so?  Well, perhaps I'll have Mary Lou take a look, then.  I'm sure he is, Verna - I've never clapped eyes on him myself.  Fine, then, thank you.  Goodbye, everybody."  Helen hung up the phone.  Mary had stopped peeling.

"I suppose you better go have a look," said Helen.  "Verna says there's a young man wandering around the street looking lost."  Mary was already up and out of the room, jostling by her younger sister Edna in the doorway of the kitchen.

Helen smiled sweetly at Edna.  "Well, dear, you're just in time to help.  I think Mary's done enough in here for now."

Chapter Four - Long Past Lights Out

August 1943 - Early Sunday Morning

"Did you see his eyes?"

"Go to sleep."

"He was dreamy, wasn't he?  I mean, he really was."

"He was fine.  The right amount of dreamy.  Now, hush."

"You're sure he'll come back tomorrow?"

"The man has been eating air force food for months.  You think he'll pass up a home cooked meal?"

I didn't see him take down the address.  Did you see him do that?  Did you see him write down  ...".

"Girls!  It's late..  Quiet now."

"He must have memorized the address.  Do you think he memorized it?  I know he didn't write it down.  He must have memorized it."

"Of course he memorized it.  He's not an idiot, you know."

                                                               *********************

"I am such an idiot.  I can't believe I didn't write down the address."

"Do you mind, ya bum?  I'm trying to sleep here."

"Where was the dance?  If I got to where the dance was I could maybe figure out which bus to take."

"And where would you get off?  Dummy.  Why wouldn't you ask for her address?"

"I just didn't think about it."

"Her phone number?"

"I know they have a phone, but ..."

"... but you didn't get the number.  So, what's her last name?"

" ... "

"Genius.  So you don't know where she lives, don't know her telephone number, don't know her name, and what else ...?  How much more can you not know about someone?"

"I know she's a honey.  And I know she likes me."

"My make-believe girl is a honey, too.  And right now she's calling me back to sleep.  So shut up."

                                                 *****************

August, 1943 - Sunday, 2 P.M.

His jam-packed duffel over his shoulder, Justin asked one of the bellmen at the hotel about the dance the night before.

"It was at a roller rink.  In a park," the young airman said.  "Maybe a ten minute bus ride from here ...?"

"How drunk were you, young man?"

"I wasn't drunk.  I was with a bunch of the boys.  I thought we'd be coming back together, so I didn't need to remember where we were going.  But then I met a girl ..."   Justin spun the story out, long past embarrassment now.  The bellman chuckled.

"Do you remember anything about the neighbourhood?  Think, now.  This town has a whole bunch of neighbourhoods, and most of them have little things you can notice, like a smell or a sound or a big building or something."

"Railway tracks, I remember those.  I heard a train.  And ... horses?  Some sort of midway, with rides?"

The bellman nodded.  "OK.  No guarantees here, but it sounds like you were near the Exhibition Grounds.  I can get you that far, but after that you're on your own."

The bellman jotted out directions and handed them to the young serviceman.  "You shipping out with the rest of these boys tonight, son?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you have a nice time today and good luck overseas.  My boy is over there right now.  You take care of yourself.  And son ... ?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I hope you find her."

Justin hopped on the bus rolling along Jasper Avenue.  At the river, the road swung north.  He watched the numbers glide by, all of them unfamiliar, rising from the low 100s until they reached 118th Avenue.  The bus turned right and rumbled along the busy thoroughfare.

"Young fella, you wanted the Ex, right?" asked the bus driver.  "It's just over there.  Closed up today, i should think."

Justin got off the bus and stood in one spot, trying desperately to remember something - anything - about the direction they'd taken the night before after getting off the bus.  He searched his mind.  He could remember her sweater, the tiny embroidered flowers on the front panel; he could remember her eyes, her voice.  He could remember ...

... crossing the street.  He remembered that, because a car had been speeding and he had reflexively put his arm around Mary to hurry her across and he could still feel his hand on the small of her back.

Justin crossed the street and walked a block or two.  It couldn't have been much farther than this.  A tree-lined street - the trees blocking the light from the streetlamps.  Tall house, two stories, dark coloured - was it green?  Think!

On the corner of 72nd street, Justin stopped and looked North.  Then South.  It was a corner house, he remembered that much.  He walked North, looking at the large porch on the first  house he passed.  Was this it?

He could knock on the door, he supposed, but - do you really want to look that stupid?

He walked on past and up the block.  Halfway along the block, he ducked across the street and came back, now scrutinizing the house on the opposite side.  This might be it, too.  Or was it across the Avenue?  Or hell, on the other side of town?  Was he even close?

As he walked back towards the corner, he almost tripped over a boy of about seven or eight, kneeling down on the sidewalk gazing intently at the ground.  The boy looked up, a magnifying glass in one hand.

"Are you Mary Lou's pilot?" asked the boy.

"Ummm ... well, I guess I might be.  How did you know about me?"

"Everybody knows about you.  The whole street knows about you.  My mom has been talking about you all morning.  Mary sometimes babysits me.  Are you a fighter pilot?  Are you going to kill some Germans?  My Dad's in the army.  He's a cook."  The boy looked up at him and grinned.  "You can make ants melt with this microfying glass.  They wriggle."

Justin knelt down beside the boy.  "Can you tell me where Mary Lou lives?"

"You were just there last night."

"I know.  But I wondered if YOU could tell me."

"Sure.  The big green house.  Why did you walk right past it?  Why didn't you go in?  Are you going to just leave and not ever see her again?  That's what my Mom says.  Mrs.  Hextall, too."

"What's your name?"

""Ricky."

"Well, Ricky, I don't know what's going to happen.  I guess I'll go find out."

As Justin slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, he looked up at the big green house.  Mary was on the porch.

He walked across the street.  "Hi."

"Hi.  I see you've met Ricky.  Did he talk your ear off?"

"Nope.  But he did call me "Mary Lou's pilot."  Unless another pilot shows up, I'll take it."

Mary blushed and Justin grinned as they walked arm in arm back to the verandah.  As they walked, Justin thought:  I remembered her as beautiful.  But ... not THIS beautiful.

And Mary thought: His eyes.  Wow.  Even bluer than I thought.

Chapter Three - One Last Night

August, 1943.  Early Sunday Morning

Justin couldn't get the grin off his face as the streetcar joggled along Jasper Avenue in downtown Edmonton towards the hotel.  He replayed the evening one more time ...

                                                                          *********

"Company ... dismissed."

The ranks disintegrated, the young airmen turning and pelting across the parade square for the barracks.  Inside, every bunk was perfectly made up for the next company that would come through; so tightly were the beds made you could bounce a dime off the sheets (and in fact early in the day the inspecting officer had done just that.  It had been the dreaded white glove inspection, and God help the airman if the white glove should come up grey after a pass along the top of his locker or the underside of his metal barracks bunk.).

The men raced in and grabbed their duffel bags.  Not all their worldly possessions, perhaps, but certainly everything they would take with them overseas.  If it wasn't in your duffel or on your back, you better be prepared to buy it over there or do without - so on every duffel the seams strained and the canvas was stretched taut. 

"One last night, boys," yelled Ernie Walker, a kid from Montreal, as he slung his duffel into the luggage compartment under the bus.   "Look out, ladies of Edmonchuk!"

(Edmonton has always had a thriving Ukrainian community.   Not far from Edmonton is Vegreville, home of the world's largest Pysanka  - a fifty-foot tall, brilliantly coloured and intricately designed  traditional Ukrainian Easter Egg.  Because so many Ukrainian surnames end in "chuk" - Swischuk, Tokarchuk, Bolonchuk, Andreychuk - the very visible Ukrainian culture led to the city's nickname - "Edmonchuk".)

Ernie, Paul Steen, and Justin kibbitzed in their customary middle seats on the bus as it rolled towards downtown Edmonton.  One night of leave before the train boarded Sunday night for Ernie's home town of Montreal and a troop ship bound for England.  Given a choice between the free barracks and a pricey downtown hotel, almost all the men had opted for the hotel. 

"I'll be sleeping on a cot and sharing a biffy with you crumbums for months," said Paul.  "Tonight I want a soft fluffy bed, a nice hot shower, and a beautiful Uke girl."

"He'll be lucky if he goes one for three," said Ernie.

"And that's if he beats me to the shower," said Justin, and the three men - the three boys - laughed together as only lifelong friends do.  In truth, Paul and Justin had grown up together; both had met Ernie during basic training.  But that was a lifetime ago, wasn't it?

The bus offloaded at "the Mac" - The Hotel MacDonald, a grand old railway hotel in the heart of the city.  The three shared a room - two double beds and a roll-away cot. 

"Last one back here draws the cot," said Paul.  "But if you're the last one back, it means you found yourself a honey, so no griping."

It was 8:30 by the time they got back to the room after a steak dinner at the hotel restaurant.  Justin had run into some of the other fellows from the base and learned about a dance at a local roller rink.  The plan was to go as a group, mustering in the hotel lobby around 9.  One last check for mirror shine on the shoes and razor-sharp creases on their trousers and they were out the door.

The city bus spit them out right in front of the roller rink in the park.  The strains of Big Band music quickened the pulse as they filed in through the front gates and paid the admission - fifty cents for civilians, but servicemen in uniform paid half that.  Once in, the boys flared out in search of dance partners.

"Ohhh, will you look at her," said Paul, his eyes fixed on a stunning brunette across the floor.  "Permission to file a flight plan ... I know where I'm headed.  Here, Ling.  Hold my Coke, I'm going in."  He passed Justin his bottle of Coke and walked confidently up to the beautiful girl.

Justin watched, amused, as his best friend asked the girl to dance.  Paul was a nice fellow, a great pal, but this girl?  Not a chance.  She was out of his league.  In fact, she was out of anybody's league. 

But by God, didn't she say "yes".  As his gangly buddy - all arms and legs and elbows and knees and a face only a mother could love - squired this flawless beauty across the floor, Justin could not take his eyes off them.  Well, off her, to be honest.

The dance finished, and he could see Paul lean in close and whisper something.  She shook her head and replied, and Paul's eyes fell to her left hand and the ring there.  He nodded, smiled, thanked the girl, and came back to get his Coke.

"No joy," he said, pulling deeply on the Coke and finishing with a resounding belch that turned a few heads around them.  "Boyfriend.  My luck."

"Mind if I try mine?" asked Justin.

"All you'll get is a dance."

"Maybe that's all I want."

Justin walked across the floor, his eyes never leaving the girl.  Halfway across the dance floor, she felt his gaze, looked up,  and held it as he came towards her.  No shyness here, Justin thought.

"Would your boyfriend mind if we danced?" he asked the girl with a grin.

"Are you asking him or me?"

"Well - uh - you, of course."

"Well, *I* don't mind if we dance.  You can dance, can't you?"

"I can try."

Her name was Mary, and he couldn't stop looking at her as they moved around the dance floor.

"What?" she finally demanded.

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I'm just looking."

"Well, stop."

"You're pretty."

"Didn't your mother teach you about staring?"

He grinned.  "She also taught me 'Never take your eyes off a pretty girl.  You look away and they're gone.'"

"Well, that's just a lie.  Nobody's mother teaches them that."

"So you're not going to disappear?"

"We're dancing.  That would be rude."

"So maybe I'll just keep you dancing."

And he did keep her dancing.  He was a good dancer - three sisters had seen to that - and she loved how it felt to have him guide her around the dance floor.  Some boys led by strength, bullying you around the floor; others were tentative or as limp as a bad handshake.  In Justin's arms, she could feel his confidence, his strength, his certainty. 

And those eyes ... so blue!  She felt she could fall into them and swim forever.   She looked up into those eyes and smiled.

Her smile took his breath away.  Everything about her did.  Her voice, her laugh, the smell of her hair, how small and delicate she felt in his arms ... everything.

And what he loved most of all was how they moved as one on the dance floor.  It was as if they'd danced together not just for years but for their entire lives - every move he made countered perfectly, every turn anticipated.

They fell into a different world as the music played on, their bodies and minds in perfect step.  Conversation came in short, thrilling bursts as one or the other would lean in close to be heard over the music, cheek would press against cheek; most times it hardly mattered what was said.

As yet another dance finished, Mary drew back from him and glanced across the room.  "Ohhh ..." she said.

"What?"

"My sister.  We have to leave."

"This early?"

"Well, I have to get her home."

"I don't want to stay if you're going.  Can I walk you home?"

Mary nodded.

"And your boyfriend?  He won't mind?"

She grinned.  "It'll be fine.  I may have to break up with him."

"Poor sap."

He met Vera and asked the two girls to wait for a moment.  He spotted Paul across the dance floor and took him aside.

"Leave the door unlocked," said Justin.

"Does she have a sister?"

"Yeah, but she's not your type."

"What type is that?"

Justin grinned at his pal.  "She can see."

Paul clipped Justin a glancing blow across the back of his head.  "Good thing for you this girl can't smell.  Wonder what happened to her boyfriend?"

"Died in the war.  Terrible thing.  Don't wait up."  And with that Justin turned and made his way back to where Mary and Vera were waiting, their sweaters over their arms.

"Here," he said to Mary.  "There's a chill out."  He took her sweater and draped it over her shoulders.  She looked up at him and smiled.  He gazed at her face, memorizing every detail - her liquid brown eyes, her exquisite cheekbones, the way her lips formed a perfect ...

"If we move fast enough, we can catch the next streetcar and we'll be warm enough that we won't need sweaters," said Vera brusquely.  "Let's go."

                                                 *******************

Justin smiled as he remembered the streetcar ride to Mary's house - how they had talked and talked, lost in one another, oblivious to anything or anyone else.  As he remembered the ride, he could see nothing but her face - not the driver, not Vera, not the traffic outside the bus or the street signs whizzing by.  No way to know how far they'd gone or what direction they'd turned. 

But he could remember the feel of his arm draped along her shoulder, her thigh along his as the streetcar rumbled along, how her eyes shone when she talked, how her laughter rang like a song, and how her hand felt as she reached over and grabbed his arm to warn him they were at the right stop.  He remembered how small and fragile that same hand felt in his on the short walk from the bus stop to the big house with the giant verandah.

He chuckled to himself.  If I had to find that house in the light of day, I don't think ...

And he froze, stricken.

... I don't think I could.

Chapter Two - Home Before Midnight

Because people have asked, a note on how this story - and others - were collected.  About 12 years ago, I began carrying a notebook whenever I would go to visit my folks.  Most times I'd forget to pull it out, but there were times when I was after specific details (say, the village in Scotland where Helen Paris Brown, later to be Helen Houtton, my maternal grandmother, hailed from), when it was handy to be able to jot down a note or two.  (Portobello, near Edinburgh, by the way). 

Incidently, I recommend doing this with your parents, whatever age you are.  Your parents have a story to tell, and they're the only source of their story.  Go get it before it's lost.

My interest in collecting family stories was lent some urgency by the sad but inevitable effects of aging.  Mom has always been the one with the razor-sharp recollections, but these past few years she's fading in and out like a gorgeous old tube radio - sometimes everything is crystal clear; other times ...

But if you catch her on a good day, or a good hour, she can tell you exactly what she was wearing on the morning of her sixteenth birthday.  She'll tell you how she was in the kitchen helping her Mom bake a cake for the party that afternoon and an announcer broke into the radio program with the news that Pearl Harbour had been bombed and America was now in the war.  And she can describe her anger and resentment that something like the attack on Pearl Harbour had to happen on her Sweet Sixteenth birthday, and chuckle about how self-involved a teenager would have to be, to consider the real tragedy of that day to be a ruined party.  (But she's still mad at those bastards.  How dare they?)

Last October at their 60th Anniversary celebrations (oh, damn, I should have issued a spoiler alert!) (oh, hell, you knew anyway), I spent as much time as I could gathering this specific story. My sister had had the pictures scanned, and I was struck - as many of you have been - by my mother's sheer, drop-dead, Hollywood beauty, which you never see as a kid growing up, of course.

I've always been told I'm the spitting image of my Dad (and when I shaved my beard off for a few days last November I was dumfounded by the resemblance)  (And everyone else around here?  TOTALLY creeped out). So I had to accept that here was this guy who looked something like me, walking along a street with this incredibly gorgeous woman.  And he's going to ask her to marry him and she'll say yes and how in the name of God does that happen?

So I asked.  For the first time, I asked for the whole story - beginning, middle, end, moment by moment.  I was prepared to listen to uncomfortable details if there were any (there weren't).  But I just wanted the whole story in one piece.  And I think I got it.

Mom was sharp that day - it was fun to hear her catch up Dad on details. And it was wonderful to listen to them work together to squeeze the story out in its entirety.  Now, in fairness, it's been 60 years, so I'm willing to allow for some fading of precise recollection.  And it's a personal story, so I've also taken into account the fact that we all try to dress things up nice when we remember what we did years ago. But I think we're close to the truth.

That said, obviously some of the conversations are created by me out of whole cloth.  Where I didn't have accurate information, I'd surmise what people might say or how they might react based on knowing them my whole life.  It'd be close enough for me, but if you want to call it "fiction", go ahead.  I'm not reporting here - I'm telling a story. 

And sometimes, the truth does not improve a good story.

                                                                ***********************

August, 1943 - Late Saturday Night

There was a chill in the air as the three of them left the dance. Mary pulled her sweater closer on her shoulders and crossed her arms against the bite of the late summer evening.  They caught a streetcar on the corner and rode home, Justin and Mary chattering away, lost in one another, Vera glumly sitting across from them, very much feeling like a third wheel.

As they walked up to the green two-story house with the giant verandah, they could see though to the inside where Hugh Henry Houtton sat in his chair in the parlour.  As always, he was reading a book (or pretending to), no doubt listening to the latest news from Europe delivered by Canada's "Voice of Doom", Lorne Greene.  (An entire generation of Canadians would always remember Lorne Greene not as Pa Cartwright - and certainly not for Battlestar Galactica - but as the deep, resonant voice delivering the news of the war into their living rooms and kitchens every night.)

As he always did, Hugh Henry Houtton checked his railwayman's watch when the first footfalls landed on the porch.  He looked up as the girls walked in.  It was Vera who introduced her father to this Justin fellow.

"Ling ..." said Hugh Henry.  "You don't look like a chinaman to me. Anyways, thank you for bringing the girls home."  Said with finality; the underlying "... now, off with you." left to be taken from the tone.

Mary would have none of it.  She offered Justin some lemonade, smiling sweetly at her father.  She was home at the appointed hour, and this young man had gotten her home, so surely Hugh Henry wouldn't mind if they sat on the porch for a while and talked?  After all, Justin was shipping out the very next night.

Hugh Henry nodded assent, not completely happy but knowing it would be unseemly to be inhospitable to this young man, off to do his duty.  And what harm in a chat on the porch, especially with the ever-vigilant Vera as chaperone?

"And I've asked him to dinner tomorrow," Mary said.  "He's got no family here and it didn't seem right to let him go off to the war without a home cooked meal." 

Vera marvelled at her baby sister's brass.  For her part, Mary just smiled, daring her father to be so mean as to deny this young man a proper meal, knowing full well he wouldn't.  Wasn't she just as cool as the other side of the pillow, that one?

The three sat on the porch for an hour, talking about anything and everything.  Justin was from Kitsilano, a suburb of Vancouver.  He was a baker's son who joined the RCAF a day after high school and signed up to be a pilot.  Not only did he pass flight school - he excelled, and by the time he was 20 he was an Instructor, teaching other young men how to fly Chipmunks and Harvards and Spitfires. 

Now, as more and more planes were falling out of the sky over Britain, and as it was becoming more and more clear that this would be a war where air power could be a decisive edge, he was shipping out to teach at a fighter pilot school in England.

The girls sat enthralled, mouths agape as he told his tales of near misses and crash landings and soaring above the Rockies and chasing mountain goats along ridges.  Time seemed to flicker by, and sure enough it felt like they were just beginning to know one another when Hugh Henry gave three raps on the window.  It was time to come in.

"But you'll be back tomorrow ..." said Mary.  "Promise?"

"I guess that depends," said Justin.  "What did you say was for dinner ...?"  He grinned as she punched his arm.

Mary watched from the porch as he crossed to the streetcar and hopped on.  She returned his wave, then gathered her sweater around her arms to ward off the goosebumps.  Vera slipped her arm around her kid sister.

"He'll be back," said Vera. 

With that, the two girls filed into the house and went up to bed.  A few minutes later, Hugh Henry Houtton snapped off the light in the parlour, then the porch light, and followed behind.

Chapter One - Twelve Hours

Twelve hours.  That's all it took.

August, 1943 - Saturday Night

Vera Houtton really didn't want to have Mary Lou tagging along to the dance.  After all, Vera was, at 19, two years older - which meant that she would be responsible for her kid sister.  Which in turn meant that she would have to abide by Mary Lou's 11:30 curfew, instead of being able to stay out past midnight. 

Besides, Mary Lou was the looker, the one the boys all jostled to get close to, the one whose dance card was always full.  Who needed a night of holding your kid sister's Coke?

It was the last big dance of the summer at the roller rink.  Two bands, playing non-stop Glenn Miller and Count Basie and Artie Shaw and Jimmy Dorsey.  Lots of local boys, of course, but with the war going on, even more handsome young men from the Royal Canadian Air Force base nearby.  Always more young men than young women, and after all, this was the last big dance of the summer, so there was no way Vera was going to miss it.  And when their Dad, old Hugh Henry Houtton, bowed to Mary's pleading (as he always did), Vera didn't have much choice.

As they left the house, each of the girls slipped a "friendship band" onto the ring finger of her left hand.  This was strategic:  when the boys outnumber the girls, you got to choose.  But you don't want to hurt a young man's feelings, so you could ruefully flash your friendship ring, telling the unsuitable suitor you were being true to your "boy overseas".  The fact that there might be no "boy overseas" or even "boy across town" at that particular moment was none of anybody's business.

By 9:30 the dance was hopping.  As she had feared, Vera was spending a goodly portion of her evening babysitting Mary Lou's lemonade, holding her sweater, and glumly watching her little sister trot out every dance move Vera had so painstakingly taught her.  The local boys were lined up to put their names on Mary's card.

A stir from the main doors; a bus had pulled up and unloaded a couple of dozen airmen from the base.  Vera took the chance to pull Mary off the dance floor, give her back the sweater she'd been holding, and hustle her off to the powder room.  It was time for Vera to outshine her baby sister - at her age, their parents wouldn't approve of Mary Lou being squired around by a serviceman,  but at 19, it was - well, almost a patriotic duty for Vera.  After all, these boys were going "over there" to serve the country, and who knew what might happen to them?

Even the local boys seemed to understand, and were almost deferential as the dashing flyboys swaggered into the dance hall.  And didn't they cut a figure?  It was enough to make a girl swoon.  A man in uniform.  Sigh.

Vera's dance card began to fill up.  She'd look over from time to time to catch a glimpse of her sister, having dance after dance with a handsome, blue-eyed young serviceman who had crossed the floor to Mary Lou the moment he'd walked in.  Vera glimpsed a pair of wings sewn above his breast pocket.  A pilot, no less - but how was that possible?  He looked barely older than Vera herself.

Vera looked at her watch: 11:15.  She caught Mary Lou's eye and pointed to her feet - their sign, a play on Cinderella and her mad dash from the ball.  Mary nodded and whispered something to her pilot.  He whispered something back, she nodded, and they crossed to where Vera was standing.

"Vera, this is Justin," said Mary Lou.  "He'll walk us home."

A Love Story - Prologue

This is a photo of my Mom and Dad in early June of 1945.   They are walking along a busy street in Edmonton. 

They met at a dance, where he walked her home.  The next day, she invited him for dinner at her parents' house (she was only 17).  That was a Sunday evening, and later that night, he shipped out for England.

They never wrote or communicated in any way in the two years he was gone.

He returned to Canada, and instead of staying on the train to his home in Vancouver, he got off in Calgary and caught the train North to Edmonton.  He walked from the train station to her house, and invited her for a stroll downtown.  As they did, a street photographer took their picture - the one you see here - and my Dad agreed to buy it from him.

What you don't see is the ring in his pocket.  He is about an hour away from asking her to marry him.

She will say "yes".

Another Saturday Night At The Movies

So, last night I rented The Ice Harvest, based once again on my trust in John Cusack's choices in terms of scripts.  It looked like a safe bet, a darkly funny film noir with Cusack and Oliver Platt, who rarely turns in anything but a great performance. Billy Bob Thornton's name on the poster didn't make my eyes light up - I find his work and his choices to be spotty at best.  But Harold Ramis was  directing - Ramis directed Groundhog Day and dozens of other marquee movies, so he's always going to be solid.  I figured it was worth the risk.

And ... I guess it was. It's one of those movies that I mostly enjoyed, but would hesitate to recommend to anyone who didn't have precisely my sense of humour and appreciation for the genre

 .Based on the novel by Scott Philips, The Ice Harvest is a comic film noir set in very cold and icy Wichita, Kansas. John Cusack is Charlie, a soft-spoken lawyer who works for local mob boss (Randy Quaid). Charlie hangs out in strip clubs, pines after femme fatale Renata (Connie Nielsen), and basically watches life happen all around him. Ready for a change, he and the much more hardened Vic (Billy Bob Thornton) steal $2.1 million from the boss and plan to play it cool before leaving town, trying not to create suspicion. All they need to do is make it through Christmas Eve--but of course Charlie spends the long night getting caught up in a series of very funny, very dangerous, and very bloody events.

Film noir is tricky stuff, I find.  Done well, it is breathtaking - the twists, the turns, the suspense, deceipt, raw sensuality, danger, and always that black, black sense of humour.  It's such a rich, structured genre - the unsympathetic loner, the femme fatale, the secrets buried in riddles wrapped in mysteries that pull all the characters along and draw the audience deeply into the story.  Body Heat, Body Double, Blood Simple, Chinatown - all of them dancing along a fine line.  One step in the wrong direction, and you slide over into camp.  A slip the other way and it's just ... well, boring.

Ramis walks that line admirably, I think - a few missteps here and there, but by and large he knows where the laughs are hidden when the lights go low.  The script is mostly solid and there are some laugh-out-loud moments (I love it when gangsters meet surprising and grisly-but-comically-ironic ends).

Oliver Platt is brilliant as a drunken pal married to Charlie's ex-wife - his performance alone is worth the price of the rental; and Connie Neilsen (who I literally could not remember from any of a half-dozen other movies I've seen he in, including Gladiator) was delightfully steamy as la femme dangereuse.  Billy Bob was ... well, Billy Bob - I don't ever see much depth or variety in how he plays characters, once you take Sling Blade out of the equation.  And Cusack was ... well, Cusack.  Puppy dog looks, sardonic grin, bafflement, self-doubt - this movie certainly played to all his strong suits.

The Ice Harvest moves towards a fairly brutal and violent ending, so be forewarned.  As I say, if you love films noirs and join me in thinking they just don't make enough of them (of any real quality), you should probably give this one a run.  If you're lukewarm on the genre, or just looking for some straight comedy, don't be fooled by the packaging - this is not a yuk-a-minute chucklefest.  (Although, that particular phrase?  Is.)